Bully Bird

Today’s been a funny one, on the birding front. On the positive side, I had black-capped chickadees round my feeder for the first time ever, this afternoon. On the not-so-positive side, an aggressive sparrow flew in and pecked their heads. It also pecked a house finch, a pigeon, and several other sparrows, at various points throughout the day. You’d think the bully bird would be a male, but it’s a loud, bloodthirsty little female, which seems to think it’s a shrike. Maybe it’s auditioning potential mates, and beating up the ones it doesn’t fancy. Or maybe it’s simply a birdie curmudgeon, on a tear. (Do birds have individual personalities, to that extent? Can they be disagreeable? I certainly wouldn’t want to get on this one’s bad side. At one point, it had another sparrow’s face pinched firmly in its beak, and wouldn’t let go, even when the victim tried repeatedly to take to the air. It left a nasty cut beneath the finch’s eye, and took a feather from the pigeon. The chickadees ignored it, and kept feeding.)

I tried to get pictures of an epic sparrowfight which broke out just after lunch, but the combatants kept falling off the railings and rolling about in the weeds; conditions were hardly optimal. There were three or four males standing about, apparently enjoying the spectacle, while the bully bird picked on her latest target. At one point, she forgot which sparrow she was trouncing, and went for a different one, which promptly flew off shrieking.

This little sparrow looks like butter wouldn't melt in her beak.  Looks can be deceptive.

This little sparrow looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her beak. Looks can be deceptive.

You'd think the angry-looking sparrow puffing himself up on the...eh, thing -- what is that?  Some sort of outdoor cooking device? -- anyway, you'd think he'd be the bully bird.  But he's the bullied bird.

You’d think the angry-looking sparrow puffing himself up on the…eh, thing — what is that? Some sort of outdoor cooking device? — anyway, you’d think he’d be the bully bird. But he’s the bullied bird.

For all his masculine posturing, this sparrow didn't stand a chance.

For all his masculine posturing, this sparrow didn’t stand a chance.

On a much quieter note, I found a pair of mallards, on my afternoon walk. They were splashing about in the fountain across the way, but they got out when I approached.

A pair of mallards, out for a stroll.

A pair of mallards, out for a stroll.

And here are some flowers, because I know Mother’s reading:

What are these?  They're quite appealing.

What are these? They’re quite appealing.

I think this one's a camellia.

I think this one’s a camellia.

I was tempted to pick one, but I'm not sure that's allowed.

I was tempted to pick one, but I’m not sure that’s allowed.

Un-be-lievable!

All the birds are sad and wet, today. I woke up with seven sparrows and a pigeon lined up on my railing, sheltering from the storm. The sparrows were all bunched together near the feeder, peering suspiciously at the pigeon. Then, a pair of crows swooped in, frightening off the pigeon, and sending the sparrows fluttering to the ground. I’m quite certain the crows are nesting nearby: they’ve been very quiet at the feeder, lately. They fly in, eat, and grab some suet to go, no bawking, no window-tapping, no throwing of stones. I hope their fledglings survive. I want to see them.

Speaking of wet, ornery bastards, I was leaning over my balcony railing, trying to photograph starling tongues —

-- unsuccessfully --

— unsuccessfully —

— when I heard a distinct tut-tutting from below. I looked down, expecting to spy a starling fight, but it wasn’t a bird, at all, or even two birds. It was Ilya Nikolayich Dolgonosov, shaking his fist at me! How rude! Before I could restrain myself, I’d forked him the bird; fortunately, I had the presence of mind to bite my tongue on the accompanying raspberry. Seriously, what’s the matter with that man, shaking his fist like some silent-era villain? I half-expected a caption to pop up (on a black background, of course, with a fancy white frame around it) — “I’ll get you!” Who behaves like that? Maybe he thought I was a creeper, looking in people’s windows with my telephoto lens. But there was a pair of starlings RIGHT THERE; I can’t imagine he failed to see them, or at least hear them. What a horrid old wrinklesnout. Next time, I’ll photograph him, see how he fancies five minutes of Internet infamy. (Well, not really. Last time I made fun of an annoying neighbour online, I got caught, and had to apologise. That was embarrassing.)

While on the subject of things that are weird, every once in a while, a huge plume of water erupts from the other side of False Creek, rising nearly as high as the skyscrapers behind it:

And then, a tsunami rose, and swept Mr. Dolgonosov (and only Mr. Dolgonosov) out to sea, and we all lived happily ever after.  The end.

And then, a tsunami rose, and swept Mr. Dolgonosov (and only Mr. Dolgonosov) out to sea, and we all lived happily ever after. The end.

Whee!

Whee!

What IS that? Why does it happen? Is it on purpose? And if so, do boaters get a warning, before it goes up? — you know, on their boat radios, or something? That could be a miserable soaking, for a boater.

And finally, a wet sparrow:

This sparrow has yet to master the art of not being rained upon.

This sparrow has yet to master the art of not being rained upon.